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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24830614">Deceased and Desist</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnOddSock/pseuds/AnOddSock'>AnOddSock</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Blood As Lube, Blood Loss, Blood and Injury, Cages, Chains, Choking, Collars, Dark Crack, Dehydration, Electrocution, Explicit Language, Fear of Death, Flogging, Fucking Machines, Gags, Hopeful Ending, Humiliation, Hurt Sam Winchester, Injury, Injury Recovery, Kidnapping, Knives, Liberal use of Italics, M/M, Master/Slave, No Lube, Painful Sex, Possession, Rescue, Sadism, Sleep Deprivation, Starvation, Swearing, Torture, Trauma, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Whipping, brief instance of religious thought processes in a fucked up thinking kind of way, there's no good tag for that..., too many commas probably</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 04:28:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,953</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24830614</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnOddSock/pseuds/AnOddSock</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>On a hunt gone wrong Sam ends up the victim, in the cruel clutches of a long-dead ghost with only one thing on its mind.</p><p>It's a grave situation, and he's not going to get out of it without a little subterfuge and a lot of help.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dean Winchester &amp; Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester/Original Male Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>74</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Sam Winchester Prompt-a-thon</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Deceased and Desist</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">



        <li>In response to a prompt by
            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenchantress_stories/pseuds/Jenchantress_stories">Jenchantress_stories</a>  in the  <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/collections/SamWinchester_Prompt_a_thon">SamWinchester_Prompt_a_thon</a>
          collection.
        </li>
    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is kind of brutal, occasionally funny, and possibly wholly incompatible with the lore or ghosts in canon, but who cares it's fiction, right 😅?</p><p>Set sometime around season 2 or 3, poor hurt bby Sam.</p><p>Heed the tags and warnings, and enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The flogger strikes his back in a flurry of sensation, so many, so fast that he can’t even breathe between them. His back is on fire; beyond the point of tenderness, long past the point of potential pleasure, all there is now is pain.</p><p>Which is probably what this fucker <em>wants, </em>considering he’s trapped in some torture-sex-slave-dungeon with the ghost who had once called this place home. Sam’s not entirely sure how he got here, or where exactly here is. Only that it’s been about a day and a half and he’s fairly certain this guy isn’t even halfway done with him yet.</p><p>In the cases they were investigating the people had been missing anywhere from five days to three weeks, before turning up disfigured and <em>dead</em>. Plenty of time for Dean to find him before the ghost has had enough of him…. Plenty of time to be tortured to death, alone, if Dean fails to find the lair.</p><p>The strikes come to a stop and he heaves for breath, gasping with a body that doesn’t want to move and haul in air. Tough shit, really, because he’s determined to stay alive and that means <em>breathing</em> for starters, and then pretending to play along, if he wants to be really smart. And he prides himself on being <em>really smart.</em></p><p>He chokes down enough oxygen, and spits out: <em>“Thank you.”. </em>Because he’s learning and he’s giving the ghost-of-torturers past exactly what he wants, so that Dean might have a little more time to get to him.</p><p>Saying thank you when he’s supposed to, begging and screaming and giving in to the pain—or pleasure, if that’s the current game—all seem to appease something in the twisted spirit. He’d tried for a while to hold back, the way he was trained and raised to. He kept his pain to himself, swallowed the screams and the tears and just shuddered through it—but it only made it worse. So now he’s going against everything ingrained in him to succumb, just a little.</p><p>It won’t be enough to stall it forever, but every hour matters and every drop of blood is counted.</p><p>Sam pants and shakes. He’s on all fours, strapped into a metal contraption that holds fast around his ankles and wrists, with a stiff band that locks around his neck too. There’s a bar along the underside of his torso that he can lean his weight on and he’s stupidly grateful that the thing is adjustable to fit his tall frame or else he’d probably be dealing with broken bones, or a mangled spine, right about now.</p><p>He hears the strange magnetic pops in his eardrums that signal the ghost moving from place to place. Cold chills break out across his skin as it uses up the energy in the room, sucking all the fun out… literally. Sam can tell it’s frustrated by the swiftness of the movements, and that’s not good.</p><p>He growls extremely colourful curses as something thick and cylindial forces its way into his ass. Clenched muscles don’t do a damn thing and he feels more sweat beading on his brow as the ghost fucks him with the dildo. He just needs a break, a chance to rest. The ghost is tireless and Sam hasn’t had more than a few moments alone since he woke up here. Despite not having hands to touch him directly the ghost has no trouble interacting with every toy and implement in the room, and Sam is becoming intimately acquainted with all of them.</p><p>“What do you want?” He asks, again, knowing he’ll get no response. Ghosts don’t have mouths, spectres don’t <em>talk.</em> “I’ll do it, I’ll give it, I’m fucking stuck here just tell me what you <em>want </em>from me.”</p><p>Ice cold fingers hover over his hair and he looks up through sweaty bangs to see the ghost leaning over him, head tilted, dead lifeless eyes and gaping mouth blankly facing him. His defiance wavers, a little, under the scrutiny. He takes a moment to convince his exhausted mind that he’s not looking at a clown mask, that this is a run-of-the-mill haunting, not a terrifying illusion inside some hall of mirrors from hell. It’s not his deepest darkest fear, it’s just a horror-show he has to survive. He can handle this, he can, or he can pretend to at least.</p><p>The leather collar around his neck sizzles and he winces. He’s giving his all and it isn’t enough. The ghost has touched him in all manner of ways and it still isn't satisfied, and Sam is finding it harder and harder not to crumble under the onslaught. He <em>can’t</em> break down over the violations he’s experiencing, he can’t analyze how it makes him feel because if he does that the yawning terror inside him of being used and fucked will eat him whole. He has to put that off until this is over, until Dean gets here. <em>Because Dean will get here.</em> He can’t fall apart until it’s safe to fall to pieces.</p><p>But the collar. The collar tightens and loosens and itches depending on the ghost's mood. It digs claws into his brain because it means something <em>worse.</em> It means <em>owned</em>, it means <em>trapped,</em> it means this is real and this ghost wants to keep him.</p><p>And if Sam wants to stay alive, he has to <em>let it.</em></p><p>“You… you can have me. I’m. I’m here, aren’t I? You got me where you want me, I can be…” he can't bring himself to say it, it’s too much like giving in. And Winchester’s never give up, never surrender. He changes tack. Licks his lips and tilts his chin as far as he can to bear his throat and whispers. “Master.”</p><p>The ghost flickers. Brightens. Static vibrates through the air. Before Sam can even blink it’s gone and then back again. A silver tag materialises in its hand and Sam swallows. Chills wrack his body as the ghost moves closer and then the small weight of a tag attaches to the ring on the front of the collar he’s wearing. It feels so much heavier in Sam’s mind than it is around his neck, feels like a damn anvil weighing him down.</p><p>The ghost returns and as Sam twists his head to say something a life-like black dildo is forced between his teeth. He chokes, saliva pools and he sucks on the penis shaped toy in his mouth to avoid gagging. Straps buckle behind his head and he groans. Fuck. No. Fuck. He shakes his head trying to dislodge it, which fails. Obviously. Because he won’t ever get a win here.</p><p>Has he ever had a win, at all? Or is being the whipping boy of a sadistic domineering asshole—who, oh yeah, also happens to be <em>dead—</em> just the absolute icing on the cake of his crappy life?</p><p>Hurry the fuck up, Dean, he thinks, I’m not dying with this guy. This is absolutely an <em>until death do we part</em> scenario, the <em>parting </em>being the most crucial point. He will part ways with this ghost very firmly on the side of life, thank you very much, or his name isn’t Winchester.</p><p>Something large, slick, and bumpy is forced into his twitching body. He hangs his head, trying to look between his knees to see what’s coming and when he does… he wishes he could burn out his eyes and bleach his brain and scrub away even the <em>idea</em> of being violated like this.</p><p>A fucking machine, really? Wasn't this bad enough?</p><p>It jerks to life and Sam keens; it’s too fast, too dry, he’s too goddamn tired and sore and it hurts. And… there’s another sensation there that he won’t—<em>can’t</em>—think about. The ghost fizzles in and out, forcibly pressing buttons until it’s happy with the speed and then lets it lazily thrust into Sam. His hole clenches and his dignity burns and Dean absolutely <strong>cannot</strong> find him stuffed full of dick at both ends and being observed like a prime piece of meat.</p><p>So maybe don’t hurry <em>too much </em>big brother, he thinks. Give me some time to make myself decent.</p><p>Without prior warning one of his hands is freed and an open tube of lube is dropped next to it. He hesitates and then grabs it up. The ghost pushes its fucking freezing hell-fingers <em>through his goddam skull</em> in some imitation of comfort, and then it jumps in fits and spurts until it leaves through the secret door in the wall that is oh so very far out of Sam’s reach.</p><p>He yells after it. Words shaped to mumbling monosyllables with the gag firmly sitting on his tongue. <em>Don’t leave me like this. Don’t leave! Don’t!</em></p><p>The machine fucks him, ruthlessly. Mechanically. What with it being a machine and all. He sobs and slams his free hand down on the floor, a pathetic amount of lube squirts out and hits him on the chin and he laughs at the absurdity until he near-chokes on the fake dick, and then he just glares at the room like a stern look might make salvation appear.</p><p>After a quick check that he can’t reach to loosen any other restraints and that the gag is locked in place too, he relents and picks up the lube to fumble for his ass. He liberally squeezes some down his crack and hopes the dildo fucking into him pushes it where it needs to go.</p><p>By the time the ghost comes back he’s been fucked six ways to Sunday for what feels like hours. His cock is hard between his legs, curling up to his stomach and bobbing as he rocks in place against the thrusting machine. The lube is almost gone. He doesn’t think his knees will ever be the same again, but that’s low on his list of worries.</p><p>He looks up to see the jerky movement of a real, physical, flesh and blood man who is clearly possessed by the ghost of tortures past. A stranger's face with wide eyes, lips tinged blue, but the flicker of excited malice behind the gaze is one Sam knows well, by now. The ghost-man stops the machine and removes it, stepping with hesitant aborted movements into its place, and dropping to his knees. Sam realises what’s about to happen about three seconds before it does and cries out, upending the tube of lube over the back of his thighs and ass—now slick with the drying fluid and sweat—and hopes to god that it’s enough to ease the way of the real-life cock that’s about to breach him.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>His ass aches in a way he didn’t know was <em>possible.</em> No amount of experimenting in college, and god knows he tried his share, could have prepared him for this. A fucking <em>freight train</em> up his ass couldn’t have prepared him for this. When John trained them for combat no one mentioned he should be training his hole on beer can sized dildos just in case he ever got literally fucked over a barrel by the denizens of evil.</p><p>The ghost has been relentless since Sam pretended to submit two days earlier. He had no idea submission would mean being doted upon by dick after dick—some fake, some real life flesh.</p><p>It has earned him more rest too. <em>Rewards</em>, he thinks bitterly, for <em>good behaviour</em>. There’s no routine Sam can discern, no plan. It’s just a cycle of random torments. The ghost is insatiable, flicking between causing pain to hear Sam scream, or using Sam for pleasure. His throat is raw from screaming and holding back is no longer on the cards. He hurts too much, hasn’t eaten, has barely slept.</p><p>He’s running on borrowed time and he knows it. His thoughts are foggy, almost delirious at times. And though he’s been given water since he called the ghost <em>Master, </em>there hasn’t been even a whiff of food. It probably forgets that alive people need to eat, that a diet of dick and come is not enough to survive on. It’s just one more thing for Sam to hate the bastard for, and he’s got a list as long as he is tall for reasons to revile the asshole.</p><p>The ghost has come and gone with three different men, possessing them for only a short time and making do with the tools in his dungeon in between. Sam's shame at being seen like this by strangers is only dampened by his anger that none of them have come to his rescue since. Maybe they're too scared, maybe they don't remember, but it eats at him all the same and he wishes one of them would step up to the plate and do something.</p><p>Well, if you want something done right...</p><p>He has a plan, finally, having his brains fucked out and clouded by agony it took him a while to think of it.</p><p>If the men are coming and going maybe they’re <em>awake</em>. Maybe they know where the dungeon is. It’s possible they think they’re dreaming, or hallucinating, but if he can just <em>talk</em> to one of them…</p><p>And the ghost is out, right now, presumably finding another unwilling participant to join in the <em>fun</em>. Sam is less than thrilled at the prospect of going through with his plan. It’s not going to be a pleasant conversation, and he won’t have long, and if it works he'll pay the price. But he has to try.</p><p><em>Time to soldier on. Bite the bullet. Wait, no. Bad train of thought. Time to grab a </em> <em>lifeline.</em></p><p>He’s been bleeding from the chest for an hour because for once his hands aren’t chained out of the way, and this is his chance. The collar and chain attaching him to the wall gives him just enough slack to pry open one of his numerous wounds and let it <em>drip drip drip</em> into his waiting hand. There’s a sharp jut of a cracked brick just close enough that when the blood starts to clot, he can irritate the cut and make it begin to bleed steadily again. He needs it fresh, needs it uncongealed. When it thickens in his hand he wipes it off on his skin, the floor, the walls.</p><p><em>Just call me a painted whore.</em> He giggles to himself. Hopes to god he isn’t losing too much blood to put himself out of the game. <em>Swing and a miss</em> is not an option. He’s playing to win. <em>B</em><em>atter up, motherfucker, I’m going for a home run.</em></p><p>He has a palm full of iron-rich liquid just <em>waiting</em>. Ready.</p><p>He just needs to stop being dizzy, and he’ll be good to go. He needs to stop mixing his metaphors and <em>focus.</em> He needs to get <em>home.</em></p><p>When the ghost gets back Sam is weak with blood loss and the fatigue of prolonged pain. He rests his forehead on the wall, closes his eyes and thinks of Dean. <em>Not in Kansas anymore, and there’s no place like home, no place like home.</em> The ghost doesn’t need to know he’s still thinking of escape, and he’s sure as shit looking pathetic enough to pass as defeated.</p><p>“Good boy,” the ghost croons from behind him and he shivers. Hearing a stranger's voice saying the same thing this dead sadist has groaned with every body he’s possessed is enough to make him sick to his stomach. It does, thankfully, also give him a shot of adrenaline and he knows this is his make or break moment.</p><p><em>Break a leg</em>, <em>just please not literally.</em></p><p>He lets out a low moan and turns away when the ghost uses real-life hands to unlock his chain. It’s better when it has no body and does everything with a flick of the wrist and a focus of the mind. He doesn’t want to be near this thing, but space isn’t a luxury he’s going to be given and at least now he can use it to his advantage.</p><p>He lets himself slump when he’s free and lets out a fake whimper that he hopes sounds convincing. It probably does, he’s willing to bet every sound he makes right now is pathetic and weak, because he feels wrung out.</p><p>“Where’s my good boy? Look at me.”</p><p>He shakes his head, mutely, mutters: <em>“Please.” </em>He curls up tighter, readying his muscles for a fight. “No more.”</p><p>“Ahh, but you can take it. I know a strong one when I see it.” A hand touches his shoulder and grips tight, it’s death-cold and he flinches. “Now, <em>look at me</em>.”</p><p>As the ghost turns him Sam springs into action. He pushes up to his feet in as smooth a motion as he can manage, forces the ghost to go with him and pushes it backwards. It opens the stranger's lips to speak and Sam slams his bloody palm over the open mouth and tips the head back with a jolt. Blood pours from his hand onto the waiting tongue and the ghost screeches.</p><p>It’s deafening, and Sam scrunches up his shoulders against the onslaught. He feels the moment the ghost recoils, forced backwards by the iron in his blood, and retreats out of the body it inhabited. It soars across the room, an unholy scream following in its wake.</p><p>“Wha-!” the man in front of Sam begins to talk and Sam forces his hand harder over the strangers mouth, holding his head still with the other.</p><p>“Listen, we don’t have long. This is real, this is happening. I need you to <em>get me out.</em> When he dumps you back out in the world I need you to find my brother, Dean. He’s got a black ‘67 Impala, you can’t miss it. Find him at The Starlight Motel.”</p><p>“I don’t understand. What’s happening?” The man mumbles, his eyes wide with fear.</p><p>“Impala, Dean, Starlight Motel. He’ll explain. People will keep getting hurt if you don’t. Please!”</p><p>The guy nods and Sam releases his mouth, wiping as much of the remaining blood off onto the man’s lips as he can. The man goes to spit and Sam shoves him before he can. The ghost tries to possess him again and Sam holds out a bloody palm, flicking blood droplets from his fingers to force the spectre back.</p><p>“Repeat it!” he yells at the man.</p><p>“Impala, uh, um ‘67 model, brother Dean, motel… uh, Starlight?”</p><p>Sam sags in relief. Now he just has to hold on. “I’m sorry this happened to you,” he says.</p><p>“Me? What about you? Have you... you’re.. you’ve been tortured!”</p><p>He nods, and leans forward until the stranger catches his elbows. The man is warm, and Sam hasn’t been warm in days. “Just do what I said, it’ll put an end to it. Even if… if I don’t…”</p><p>The man must have swallowed or spoken enough to slick his mouth with saliva and dilute the blood, and the ghost slams back into his body in a rush of cold air. Sam tries to recoil but quick hands clamp down around his throat and his weak, pounding fists do nothing to make it stop.</p><p>“Bad slave. Oh, I’ll punish you for this.”</p><p>Sam’s world slowly turns gray, then black, and he has half a moment to wonder if this is the end before he’s swallowed up by the lack of oxygen and slumps into a heap next to the splatters of his own blood.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>He wakes not long later in the standing cage, with his wrists shackled above him and his body squashed in the cramped space. It isn’t really tall enough for him, but there’s no room to move around anyway. It’s kind of like being in a coffin, and Sam hates making that comparison.</p><p>He groans, gets his feet under him and takes the weight off his shoulders and wrists. It’s claustrophobic in the narrow cage and the bars are cold on his chilled skin. The ghost paces in its borrowed body outside the tiny cell, and growls as Sam wakes.</p><p>He shakes his head to clear the static and wonders what seems wrong. Slowly the awareness comes to him, there’s no tinkling metal sound; the noise that has permeated every waking moment since he made his first play.</p><p>The tag is gone from the collar. The ghost has rescinded his claim.</p><p>Sam isn’t safer than anyone else down here, now. He’s just a body waiting to be torn apart. Threw himself to the wolves, and dinner is about to be served.</p><p>“I thought you were different, but you’re all the same. Weak. Liars. Inadequate.” The ghost spits at him.</p><p>“Yeah well,” Sam coughs around his bruised throat, leaning his forehead on the bars of the cage. “Maybe if you didn’t torture people, you might have better friends.”</p><p>The ghost hisses, and presses the strangers face up to the bars. “I’ll break you yet, boy. Everyone breaks. Fragile, all that tenderness inside just waiting to come out.”</p><p>Sam just stares him down, past the point of trying to hold a conversation with this evil thing. He knows he’ll pay the price for his escape plan, knows it’s going to hurt like hell. “Get on with it then!”</p><p>The ghost throws him a smile, and there’s none of the concern that Sam saw in the stranger’s eyes when he wasn’t possessed. It upends the bucket of dirty water that Sam has been allowed to drink from, on occasion. It splashes over Sam’s feet and calves and slicks the bottom of the cage with a thin film of slippery liquid. He stares at it, feeling a little forlorn. So, no more water then. He licks his dry lips and closes his eyes.</p><p>
  <em>Our father who art in heaven, shallow be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy water’s gone… </em>
</p><p>He doesn’t know what he’s thinking, anymore. Is there even going to be a coherent person left to save once Dean gets here? He hears the crackle of electricity and moans. <em>Deliver me from evil, good god please. </em>The ghost is holding the cattle prod, something he’s only used on Sam once before. “Humans have been so inventive since I died. And this… just might be one of my favourites.”</p><p>It walks forward, blue sparks flashing between the prongs, and Sam’s heart sinks as it lowers toward the floor instead of reaching between the bars toward his body. He tries to pull himself up by the chain around his wrists but he’s too weak. The electricity hits the water and he sucks in one last breath before he’s screaming and convulsing and there’s no room left for anything but pain.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The rage of Sam’s actions must be a huge source of power for the ghost, fuelling his anger, giving it the ability to possess the poor bastard for <em>hours</em>. He’s fucked Sam raw, twice, and taken great pleasure in wielding the bullwhip by hand, instead of the power of his mind.</p><p>Sam is near delirious with exhaustion and pain by the time it’s control over the unwilling host starts to waver. He’s glad, grateful, and a small kernel of hope starts to spring to life. Maybe he’ll get out of here soon, if the man can remember his message. More than that, though, if the ghost has to leave and dump the man back out in the world, maybe Sam will get a break. Some kind of reprieve.</p><p>Of course, he’s not that lucky, because when is he ever that lucky? The ghost straps him down and turns the fucking machine on once again. Sam thought he was past the point of having energy to scream.</p><p>He was wrong.</p><p>No lube, this time, no mercy. The ghost has stopped caring about giving him any kind of pleasure, no matter how unwanted it was. Sam is only here to be hurt now.</p><p>And it hurts, it hurts so very, very much. Even when he tears, even with blood to slick the way for the thing pounding into him, it’s not enough, and everything narrows down to the burning agony inside him.</p><p>He’s fucked.</p><p>He thinks it, and knows it, and at that moment it’s hilarious. He’s being <em>fucked to death.</em> He’s going out with something buried to the hilt inside him, whether it’s the possessed dick of a stranger, or some piece of plastic, he’s being literally, actually fucked into his own grave. Every retort he and Dean have ever made to each other in jest, every vehement ugly thing an evil soul has ever said to them, is about to come true. “<em>Go fuck yourself”</em>, and here he is, letting it come true.</p><p>Laughter turns to sobs, dry and heaving, he shakes on the floor and lets out a soft wail. He’s been hurt so much, so intimately, and he’s been pushing it all down to deal with later. The violation, the trauma, the terror, the anger, the hatred; everything that’s been wrong with the situation—he hasn’t dealt with a single iota of it, assuming there’d be time once he was rescued. He didn’t want to be touched like this, and it’s very assuredly not the last thing he wants to experience on this bitch of an earth.</p><p>Hurry up, Dean. It’s now or never. I don’t care if you find me ashamed and humiliated, just <em>find me.</em></p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Once his new sadistic best friend reappears it’s another three hours until anything changes. He’s been through everything the ghost can throw at him and his body is on the point of collapse. It’s just going through the motions now, reacting purely on instinct. His muscles contract, his vocal chords scream, he flinches and tries to evade the blows but it’s all just auto pilot, he’s not in control. The plane is flying without a pilot, and Sam’s too tired to care how he must look, and how visceral his reactions must be.</p><p>He’s on his knees, a spreader bar between his ankles, and chains stretching his arms high above his head. Gagged again, because that seems to be the ghost’s favourite new thing. It doesn’t want to hear him speak, muffled screams are enough. There’s… something, between his feet, something that he’s slowly being impaled on as he loses the ability to drag his body further upright. It was nudging at his hole when the ghost first arranged him here, it’s now somewhere up in his guts getting friendly with his intestines—or that’s how it feels.</p><p>The ghost floats around him, a wickedly sharp blade hovering from its outstretched hand. Controlled with its mind alone Sam watches through his sweaty hair as it trails the tip of the blade over his skin. He trembles, and wonders where the next slice will be cut, it’s like being peeled by the world’s worst chef. <em>Come and get your Sam-wiches, </em>he all but laughs<em>, get them while they’re hot.</em></p><p>He shudders as the blade drags over his nipple, eyes going wide as it doesn’t cut but slowly inches lower and lower. Passing his belly button he starts to whine as the trajectory doesn’t stop and the knife coated in his blood heads decisively towards his crotch. He shakes his head, desperately. He needs this buffet of horrors to remain sausage free.</p><p>That can’t be on the menu, can it? That would kill him, and he can’t die, the ghost wants him to suffer for as long as possible, of that he’s relatively certain. The chains rattle as he groans and tries to pull away, terrified of the pain he’s about to feel, it digs the thing between his legs more sharply into his torn asshole and he doesn’t care—rather that, than a blade on his dick.</p><p>The door slams wide, hitting the wall, just as he closes his eyes in resignation and he flings them wide open again to see a blurry outline of a person through the wispy form of the ghost before him.</p><p>“Get away from him you son of a bitch!”</p><p>Dean’s voice. That’s <em>Dean.</em> Just in time for the main course. The ghost whirls around, away, and Sam sags in relief. Dean has his shotgun raised but he isn’t firing and it takes Sam a moment to realise why—he’s in the line of fire, the salt rounds will go through the ghost and straight into him.</p><p><em>Can’t let that hold you back</em> he thinks as loudly as he can. <em>If you don’t fire I’m mincemeat anyway.</em></p><p>Dean barrels forward, crow bar swinging and swipes through the ghost with enough force that Sam feels the <em>whoosh </em>of air across his sweat-chilled skin. The ghost dissipates and Sam watches, half fascinated-half terrified to see where it will re-materialise next. Dean is in front of him, lifting his chin, speaking words that sound garbled and twisted and Sam blinks at him, sighing through his nose. Movement catches his eye and he looks toward it; enough of a signal that Dean turns and opens fire.</p><p>Salt rounds burst and shatter through the room, a cacophony that jolts Sam back into his body, adrenaline coursing to give him one last burst of strength. He tries to lift himself up—<em>off—</em>the intrusion that he’s fucked himself onto during the last hour, tries to focus on what’s going on. There’s yelling and the ghost is screeching. He’s not sure if the temperature keeps fluctuating or if he’s finally going into shock from blood loss and pain. It’s like a meat freezer in here, and he’s the one on the hooks, and dead weight can’t do anything to help itself.</p><p>Between bouts of rifle-fire and crow bar swings and searching the room Dean shoves a lock pick into his hand. He can barely grip it, and trying to do so loses his grip on the chains holding him upright. He falters, slips, and screams around his gag as he impales himself further.</p><p>“—what’s it tied to?” Dean yells. “Sam! Any ideas?!”</p><p>The words reach him through a haze and they finally start to click. He drops the lock pick with a clatter and motions frantically. He angles his head and bares his throat. He groans, as loud as he can, points with both hands at the sweat-slick band of ownership around his neck. <em>The collar, the collar, the fucking collar, Dean. <strong>Get it off me.</strong></em></p><p>“Fucking of course it is,” Dean curses. “I’m nearly out of rounds, this better work. Back the fuck up ghost-dick!” He shouts, whacking the newly forming figure out of his way. “You’re about to be toast.”</p><p>Dean pulls out his hunting knife, grabs Sam’s head and yanks, slides the blade blunt-side first against the skin of Sam’s neck and saws at the leather. Sam watches his brother's eyes intently, focused on nothing but the concentration there, utterly trusting. Dean is here, Dean found him, Dean is gonna get him out. The ghost of torturers-past is about to be very, very <em>past tense.</em></p><p>Three quick motions and the leather collar snaps loose. Sam inhales, noisily, dragging for air past a stifled throat. The ghost wails, flickers closer and its pale hand reaches out with fingernails like claws.</p><p>“Save me a seat in hell,” Dean spits, fumbling for his lighter and holding the cursed object over the open flame.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The ghost disperses in a screech—and fuck if Sam isn’t sick of that grating sound—and a hiss, it’s essence burning up. It writhes and there’s a grim sense of satisfaction to watching it suffer.</p><p>It’s over.</p><p>It’s.</p><p>It’s <em>done.</em></p><p>He’s free.</p><p>Well, not free. Still bound up like a rotisserie chicken, really. Bound and gagged and sore as all fuck.</p><p>He sags and nearly passes out from the pain in his insides; his eyes roll back at the shifting of the contusions on his skin, the sting as his sweat drips into open wounds.</p><p>Dean is at his side and looks worried, and Sam thinks he’s probably not worried enough for how much pain he’s in, but maybe it feels worse than it is. He watches as Dean’s eyes travel quickly over his body, and his brother’s face pales and then hardens.</p><p>Right, so it’s exactly as bad as it feels then.</p><p>Dean unbuckles the gag and flings it across the room, he cups Sam’s face and strokes his hair out of his eyes. “Got yourself in a pretty state here, didn’t ya? Don’t worry I got you, we’ll get you cleaned up. We’re gonna laugh about this one day, you’ll see.”</p><p>It’s mindless comforting words but it helps, strangely. Sam’s throat is parched and he struggles to swallow, to speak.</p><p>“I don’t… uhh, not sure where to start?”</p><p>“Water?” Sam croaks.</p><p>Dean looks sheepish. Shrugs apologetically and Sam drops his chin to his chest with a groan. “It’s okay, look I have something better. Take a swig, it’ll take the sting out.”</p><p>Sam blinks blearily at the sight of Dean’s hip flask and coughs as it burns his raw throat, as it rolls over blisters on a tongue bitten sore under the strain of being electrified. It does soothe him though, familiar, calming. It makes his head swim in a good way, a way that makes all the pain distant.</p><p>“Gonna get you down, hold on a little longer.”</p><p>“Don’ do’not look,” Sam groans. Shame is a far off concept but he knows he’ll feel it, later, knows he’ll wish it was different. Wants to spare Dean from… this. Wants to spare himself the look in Dean’s eyes when Dean sees how badly he’s been...used.</p><p>“Kinda hard to help if I don’t look. S’alright, nothing I haven’t seen before.”</p><p>Sam snorts. Right. He’s sure Dean’s seen plenty of things up plenty of people’s butts. Just. Not <em>his</em>. He shudders, as reality settles in. He’s going to have to process all of this, sometime in the near future. Go directly to trauma, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars. He’s almost laughing, writhing, as Dean starts to tug at the thing lodged inside him.</p><p>Probably just a dildo, he thinks. But a big one. Too big. Or maybe he was just too sore.</p><p>“N-nnn-nhh.” He realises soft little huffs of pain are coming from his own throat and whines, bites his tongue again to stop them.</p><p>“Let it all out Sam, no-one here but us.”</p><p>“L-lube? Please! Hurts. Dean. Hurts!”</p><p>“I know, but lube is only gonna help if I was pushing it in, think that’s the opposite of what you want.”</p><p>“‘M tired, De. De-aaan.”</p><p>“Hey, if you pass out on me now who’s gonna tell me what to do, huh?”</p><p>Right. Consciousness. He grapples to hold to it as Dean tugs one last inch and the dildo comes free. With a—fuck, he’s gonna be sick—with a <em>gushing.</em> Blood and fluid and all of it’s gross and Sam would pass out right then and there but Dean frees his arms and lifts him down and drags him away from the… the <em>mess</em>.</p><p>He’s all unbound and Dean is wrapping his jacket around Sam’s shoulders. He disappears for what feels like hours—probably barely a minute, but time has slowed right down—and comes back with cleaner hands to start checking over Sam’s injuries and snapping his fingers in front of Sam’s face.</p><p>“Come on, up, you big lump.”</p><p>Sam shakes his head, tears that he doesn’t have the hydration to spare for, welling up behind his eyes. “Too much, too much, fuck Dean. I can’t do this.”</p><p>Speaking wears him out, wears him down, and he heaves, shaking with quiet sobs until Dean starts rubbing his back and he jerks away like he’s been burned.</p><p>“Fuck. Don’t touch. Shit. Sorry, I—I know it’s only you.” Sam pulls the last dregs of his self control into a tattered barrier between himself and the ordeal and turns into Dean’s offered arms.</p><p>Dean is stoic, silent. Holds Sam close but forces him to his feet too. “Need to get you help, little brother. One step, yeah there you go, just a few more.”</p><p>“Dean?”</p><p>“There’s a bed, right there, going to lay you down and—”</p><p>“No! Fuck no.” Sam remembers that bed, being strapped face down and spread eagle and. No. Not again. “Not getting on that bed if you fucking paid me. Just get me <em>out</em>, wanna leave.”</p><p>He’s aware he sounds like a whiny child, and frankly he thinks he’s entitled.</p><p>Dean huffs in annoyance. “Control freak.” He says it tenderly, like a reassurance to Sam’s ears.</p><p>Sam smiles, offers a shaky laugh. “Please. Home.”</p><p>Dean complies, gets them out the secret door—which he carefully seals up from the outside until the near invisible seam snaps into place and the wall looks blank again, no-one will find this place again if they can help it—and Sam is soon swaddled in too many blankets and all of their spare clothes on Baby’s back seat. For the first time in days, he finally feels like he might be okay.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Hey, stay awake for me Sam okay?”</p><p>“Mm.”</p><p>“I mean it, don’t make me come back there and slap you.” Dean sounds worried and Sam gets it, he does, but he also knows how little he’s slept in the last… however many days it’s been.</p><p>“Tired.”</p><p>“I know, it’s just a little further.”</p><p>“To… where?”</p><p>“Hospital. This is way past my pay grade.”</p><p>Sam shoots up, cries out at how much that hurts, and grips Dean’s shoulder over the front seat. “No, no hospital.”</p><p>“Why the hell not? This is bad Sam, I don’t know how much I can.” Dean gulps, throws a look over his shoulder. “You need so many stitches and it’s, there’s other stuff, too.”</p><p>“If we go to hospital they’re gonna find evidence, Dean.”</p><p>Dean grips the steering wheel a little harder and Sam breathes out through his nose. “Evidence of what?” Dean asks, like he doesn’t already know.</p><p>“The men that the ghost possessed. They’ll find DNA evidence. They didn’t do anything wrong, but they could go to jail for this. And not just me, all those other killings, they’d be implicated. They’ve been through enough.”</p><p>“And you haven’t?” Dean screeches. “Look at the state of you, I’m not letting you… <em>suffer</em> just to save some no-name idiots who couldn’t even avoid a ghost possession!”</p><p>“Dean, please. You know I’m right.”</p><p>Dean swears and pulls out of the lane he’s in, turns the car in the opposite direction. “Fine. Yeah I know. Still think it’s a dumb move. You’re gonna let me call Bobby for back up, if you won’t go to a doctor.”</p><p>“Fine.” Sam relents and eases back into his stupor. “So. That last guy found you then? Where is he?”</p><p>“Back at the motel. He wanted to come with me but no way was I bringing a civilian along and risking your neck if he ended up incompetent.”</p><p>Sam nods. Dean being protective means things are normal, means the world is still right way up, and nothing else is wrong. Nothing besides the trauma inflicted on his body, anyway.</p><p>“Didn’t even get his name,” he mumbles.</p><p>“Derek, of all things. Can you imagine being a centuries old ghost, and you manage to get yourself acquainted with every BDSM store in the state, manage to learn how to use electricity and everything, and then you possess some poor bastard and his name is <em>Derek? </em>What are the odds man.”</p><p>Sam smiles and closes his eyes, listening to Dean’s voice rant and ramble and try to make him laugh is a comfort, it eases the tightness and stress he feels in his body, and right now it’s the only thing he needs.</p><p>Of course he doesn’t turn down the pain meds Dean offers later, he’s not an idiot. Doesn’t turn down the whisky to swallow them with either. He welcomes oblivion, so long as his brother is there on the other side of it.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Sam burrows a little deeper into his covers as the motel door opens and closes. Bobby is back from the mysterious supply run, and maybe if he tries hard enough he can just go back to sleep and not face any of this, at all.</p><p>“Did you get it?” Dean asks.</p><p>“Yeah I got it. How is he?”</p><p>“He hasn't got out of bed for three days!” Dean’s voice is a strained whisper and Sam sighs softly into his pillow.</p><p>“Would you, if you'd been through the same?”</p><p>“Maybe not, but he—”</p><p>“Can hear you,” Sam speaks up, finally.</p><p>“Oh so you are awake, coulda fooled me.” Dean strides over and drops onto the bed beside him, feeling his forehead to check his temperature.</p><p>Sam swats him away, throws back the covers and bites back a moan as he forces his body to sit up. “So, what is this <em>it?”</em></p><p>“Something to help with the uhh, the memories.” Bobby shucks of his coat and drops a brown paper bag onto the table. He pulls out a small vial and holds it up to the light. “Powerful stuff, I’m told.”</p><p>Dean raises his eyebrows. “You never said it was gonna erase his memories. You want to turn my brother into an amnesiac?”</p><p>“No. Just listen ya idjit. My buddy swears by it, got a whole network of hunters down in Arizona who swear by it too. We all have our shit to bear, but for the times when it becomes too much… well apparently they got this. Dulls the mind’s ability to recall details, makes things seem less traumatic. Now I don't normally go in for witchy stuff but if it helps, it helps.”</p><p>“It'll make it seem less bad?” Sam asks. He feels small, overtaken by the way his body shakes and his mind shuts down at the flashes of pain that rush through his system, of the memories of how and why that pain is there in the first place.</p><p>“Something like that. You won't forget, the memories won't be gone. They'll just seem faded, more like a bad dream.”</p><p>“Isn't that just… repressing them?” Dean stands, agitated. His worried gaze is always on Sam, and Sam feels bad about it, but he’s needed all the help he can get so he hasn’t been able to hide a thing from Dean. Never mind the fact that his body has been a lit up neon sign advertising every single hurt in shades of purple, red, and blue.</p><p>“You got a better plan, boy?”</p><p>“Maybe! I dunno, like, actually helping him!”</p><p>“And how many psychiatrists do you know who could help?”</p><p>“How many witches do you know who do anything good? I'm trying to look out for him.”</p><p>“We're both trying to look out for him!”</p><p>“Hey!” Sam yells, waves his arm to get their attention. “My body, my choice, right? I'm good with it. Hand it over.”</p><p>“Sam…”</p><p>“Dean. I need this. You know I do.”</p><p>“I hate this, I wish I could kill that son of a bitch a second time. God knows he deserves it.”</p><p>Sam nods absently. There’s a lot of things people deserve that they don’t get. But there’s something here that, if not deserve, he requires, if he ever wants to hunt again and not jump out of his skin at every turn. Maybe if he were older he could handle this some other way, maybe if he wasn’t twenty five and on the road with only one other person day in day out, there’d be a better way to cope. For now, he’s good with this.</p><p>“Dean. I can't function like this, and there's no details in there that I need to recall with this amount of clarity. I won't lose anything. And… we'll still have the knowledge right, the hunt won't be forgotten it just won't be fucking me up in the same way.”</p><p>“Fine, you do this and take care of your mind. You let me take care of your body, especially if you start forgetting how injured you are.”</p><p>“That ain't gonna happen,” Bobby interjects. “I trust my sources, so trust me.”</p><p>“Well, I'm still going to make sure you heal up fully. I couldn't protect you from that shit, but I can sure as hell protect you from reopening a wound,” Dean says, tight, angry, coiling up ready to spring to action like a mama bear moving to protect her cub.</p><p>Sam is very tired of being the cub that needs saving. He’s ready to get back to being a creature on the prowl again, ready to hunt again. He knows Dean is angry at himself for not being unable to prevent his capture, he knows they all blame themselves in a thousand different ways for a thousand different hurts. If he can just reduce the amount of pain he feels at his memories, it’ll go a long way to helping them all move on.</p><p>“Fine,” he agrees. “You can play doctor, nurse, and babysitter all you like, s’long as you let me drink that damn thing and move the hell on with my life.” He smiles at Dean, to let him know he’s only play fighting.</p><p>Cub striking the mother, learning how to wrestle again.</p><p>Dean waves his hand and Sam gets up to take the vial from Bobby. He hears Dean pouring himself a shot across the room, and rolls his eyes.</p><p>“Bottoms up,” Dean says.</p><p>“Cheers to that,” Bobby adds, pulling out his own flask.</p><p>Sam downs the liquid in one go, grimacing at the taste. He stands, waiting for it to kick in, sways a little and shrugs as they both watch him for signs of a change.</p><p>“Well?”</p><p>He yawns, and smiles afterwards. He hasn’t been relaxed enough to yawn in days. His stomach warms, a soft heat that spreads through his body, swims upwards to his head and suffuses his mind with calm. “Guess it’s working?”</p><p>Dean breaks into a real smile, not the tight, small thing he’s been wearing since he got Sam out. “I feel better already.”</p><p>Sam shakes his head. “You didn’t take it.”</p><p>“Seeing you look happier is all the potion I need.” Dean grins.</p><p>“You boys sure are sappy when one of you is injured,” Bobby grunts, kicking off his shoes.</p><p>“Yeah, and you’re a grumpy old man at the slightest provocation.”</p><p>“Keep talking like that and you’ll owe me a favour for all my trouble here. Usually you get the family rate, but I can rescind my claim on you any time.” Bobby winks at them both and they laugh.</p><p>Sam <em>laughs</em>. A day ago, <em>ten minutes ago</em>, that wording would have sent him spiralling back into the memory of the ghost adding, and then later removing, the claiming tag from the collar that he wore. Now it’s just a distant memory, like it happened to someone else. And even though he has intimate reminders that he was the one injured, those wounds will fade, and his mind will sweep over the memories bit by bit, until they are unrecognisable as a lived experience.</p><p>He feels stronger. Better. Mind sharp as a blade.</p><p>Perhaps a blade that requires some serious one on one time with a whet stone in the near future, his body is still littered with half-healed wounds after all. But a blade nonetheless, and this time, he’s the one who gets to wield it.</p><p>He yawns again, feels like a tiger pacing in its cage as he pads carefully back to bed. He’ll be free soon, and nothing will ever lay claim to him like that again. He’ll move heaven and hell to make sure that he’s never anyone’s whipping boy, not in this lifetime.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Me: end it happily<br/>Me @ me: End it with eerie foreshadowing of Sam being destined to be with Lucifer in hell for a couple of centuries</p><p>You can see which side of me won...</p><p>This was weirdly a lot of fun to write! I hope it was just as much fun to read? Let me know with some kudos and comments if you liked it</p></blockquote></div></div>
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